


all i ever wanted was a life in your shape

by manycoloureddays



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Absolute tooth rotting fluff, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Getting Together, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26409388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manycoloureddays/pseuds/manycoloureddays
Summary: “You have a cat,” Stan says, standing in the doorway to the living room. “You didn’t have a cat last time I was here. But now you have a cat.”“Thanks for the rundown, Staniel. That just about sums up the events of the past six months.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 45
Kudos: 251





	all i ever wanted was a life in your shape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reechie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reechie/gifts).



> for ree, the sweetest of peas, an angel among us, and one of the kindest, strongest people i've had the privilege of knowing. this is incredibly silly and fluffy, i hope you enjoy it! happiest of birthdays my love!! 
> 
> thank you to lou and kaia, who together gave Mr Squashy Face/gremlin child/the fluffinator his real name
> 
> title comes from strawberry blonde by mitski

Stan pulls Richie into a tight hug at the front door before shoving him away and marching into the house without a word. Patty, now standing in the doorway alone, looks about to apologise for him, but Richie can literally see the moment she decides against it, seemingly remembering who she’s talking to. It’s the second time adult Stan has visited since Derry, but Richie’s also known Stan since before he could pronounce his r’s properly. When you talk like Bugs Bunny together before you know it’s funny, you’re bonded for life. 

“Well if it isn’t Ms Pattycakes herself,” Richie says, spreading his arms wide in welcome. “Come here to me!”

She laughs and throws herself into his arms. Richie’s only had Patty for nine months, but he’s only half joking when he says things like “fuck off Stanley, Patty’s my new best friend”. The first half would be the half he’s not serious about, he can’t even joke about it in the privacy of his own head. Not after what almost happened. What could have happened. He squeezes Patty tighter. 

“Richard, what the fuck,” Stan’s calls from the living room.

It’s emphatically not a question. Richie can tell exactly what kind of raised eyebrow, ‘would throw a dish towel over my shoulder and put my hands on my hips if I could get away with it’ look of parental disapproval Stan is wearing from his tone of voice alone. It’s a very distinctive lack of inflection. 

Richie looks down at Patty, who he is still hugging because Patricia Blum-Uris is an angel and deserves hugs that last a minimum of three and a half minutes, and shares a fond, exasperated look with her. Although hers might be directed at him as well as Stan. 

“What have you done this time?” Patty asks, and honestly? Richie isn’t sure. The house is spotless, courtesy of an Eddie-approved spring cleaning effort. There are no life sized cardboard cut out Stans hiding behind doors this visit, because between Eddie moving in three weeks ago (“so, uh, how long are you staying, Spaghetti?” “As long as you’ll have me, I guess?”), rewriting the Treehouse of Horror script with Bill, and going to the animal shelter twice last week, Richie just didn’t have the time. 

Actually, come to think of it. 

“You have a cat,” Stan says, standing in the doorway to the living room. “You didn’t have a cat last time I was here. But now you have a cat.”

“Thanks for the rundown, Staniel. That just about sums up the events of the past six months.” Richie claps him on the shoulder as he walks past to scoop up Roger the Exotic Shorthair he and Eddie now call their son (“he is not our son, Richie, because he is, in fact, a cat. He can be part of the family, but he cannot be our son because, repeat after me, we are humans and he is a cat!”).

“Richie,” Stan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Patty whispers something that sounds like  _ hush _ before coming over to coo at their crotchety old man cat. 

She scritches behind his ears and makes all the appropriate noises. “When did you get him? I can’t believe he’s not all over your social media, I thought for sure you’d be one of those people with a dedicated Instagram, narrating the life of your cat. I can’t believe you haven’t even put him in the groupchat, what kind of a cat dad are you?”

“We got him this week,” Richie starts.

“Not a cat dad!” Eddie calls from the front door. He sticks his head around the corner, smiles at Stan and Patty, and gestures Richie over with a sharp jerk of his head. 

Richie, helpless to do anything but obey, transfers Roger into Patty’s arms as delicately as if he were an actual human child. Supporting the head, or whatever it is people with babies are always saying when they play pass the parcel with their bundle of joy. 

When he gets to the hall again Eddie is nowhere to be seen, and all that remains of him are a pile of overflowing shopping bags. He carries them all through to the kitchen, enough food to get Napoleon’s army through a Russian winter even though none of the Losers are actually staying with them, except maybe on the off chance they drink too much to bother peeling themselves off the couches and heading back to their hotel. 

By the time he’s back at the front door, Eddie is there, arms full of a box full of fruit and veggies. He smiles as he takes the box from him, their fingers brushing in the transfer . Richie can’t say he’s ever craved small domestic moments like this, but the longer Eddie stays, the more routines they build together, the harder it is to ignore the butterflies he gets. And this is small potatoes compared to the feeling of moving around the kitchen with Eddie, both of them knowing exactly where the other’s body is going to be, so seamless it could be a dance— _ pull yourself together, man _ .

Stan and Patty follow him into the kitchen, Stan picking grapes off the bunch hanging off the side of the box. 

Patty is still wrapped up in the story she’s narrating to Roger, something about a frog and a lilypad, or maybe the lilypad is evil, it’s hard to tell. Stan, on the other hand, crosses his arms and frowns at Richie as he puts the vegetables away in the fridge, and rearranges the pantry, putting new jars and cans behind the older ones. . 

He cracks, finally. And just before Eddie comes back in too, Richie can hear him locking the car. 

“So, what’s my nephew’s name?” 

Richie beams at him.

“His name is Roger Frankenweenie Tozier-Kaspbrak the Third, and he is just as bad tempered as his Papa”

“That’s Kaspbrak-Tozier,” Eddie says, coming into the room, his arms laden with even more bags. “And I am not his Papa.”

“But you admit to being bad tempered,” Richie says,  _ gotcha _ firmly implied. Eddie rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks up a little at the edges and Richie feels like he’s won something huge. 

It’s been nine months since he got them all back, nine months since Eddie Kaspbrak barged back into his life in a flurry of words and Richie was reminded that just because he could feel his heart beating in his chest didn’t mean he owned it outright. It had belonged to Eddie long before Richie had memories to forget. 

Nine months. You think he’d be used to the ghost of a smile by now. 

“I admit nothing.” Eddie sticks his tongue out, carefully untangling himself from the groceries so he can pull Stan into a hug. 

Richie keeps pottering around the kitchen, arranging the fruit in the fruit bowl in as much of an approximation of the rainbow that the colour palette will allow. 

“You couldn’t possibly be my son, could you, Mr Squashy Face?” he hears Eddie ask Roger, as the other three leave the room. 

In the last few days Richie has discovered that Eddie talks to cats the same way he talks to people. Not once has he changed his tone or done anything resembling babytalk. Hearing ‘Mr Squashy Face’ in the same tone of voice Eddie uses to give directions to strangers or ask for the cheque is starting to take a toll on Richie. It makes him want to pinch Eddie’s cheeks or ruffle his hair or set something on fire. 

It, like everything else Eddie does, makes Richie want to kiss him. Setting the kitchen on fire would probably be more productive, and better for his health in the long run. 

He sighs, shoves his glasses onto his forehead to pinch the bridge of his nose.  _ All will be well _ , he reminds himself every time Eddie does something that has Richie torn between dropping to his knees and going out to buy a ring.  _ All with be fucking well, because none of us died and we’re all together again and he left his wife and moved in with you and if this is all you get it’s a thousand times more than you thought you’d get as a kid and a million times more than you had a year ago. Count to five, Tozier, all will be well. _

A hand lands on his shoulder and he lets out an undignified shriek, his glasses falling down his forehead and clattering onto the floor.

“Nice one, Loser.” Stan bends down to pick the glasses up, and shoves them up onto Richie’s face before he has a chance to take them from him. 

“You gonna tell me what’s got you in such a sour mood you won’t even snuggle with my gremlin child? Where’s vacation Stan? I was promised vacation Stan. Vacation Stan is supposed to come with a garish button up shirt and mimosa accessories, he’s limited edition, one of my favourite Stans.”

Stan, to his eternal credit, waits Richie out. Richie supposes he has practice, but if this is the expression Stan wears when he’s waiting for Richie to exhaust himself on phone calls, well, Richie won’t stop rambling at him, but he might consider it for half a second. 

“Are you done?” Stan pauses, so Richie nods, dramatically mimes zipping and locking his lips, throwing the key into the bin for good measure. “Excellent.” Stan flicks Richie’s ear, hard. 

“Ow, what the hell Stan?” 

“What the hell, Stan?” Stan mimics, his high pitched Richie-voice eerily accurate. “You have a cat.”

“Once again, that’s a statement of fact, not a —”

“You and Eddie have a cat. The two of you got a cat. You are co-parenting an animal that depends on you and will inevitably come to love the two of you, though why is anyone’s guess. You are doing this with your best friend who moved across the country to be with you— _ shush _ , I’m not finished. Who moved across the country to be with you specifically, do not contest me on that, we both know I’m right. And with whom you apparently silently communicate about groceries now, even though neither of you have ever been known to communicate silently in your life. Richard. Please. For the sake of my grey hairs. Talk. To. Him.”

He punctuates the end of his speech with three sharp jabs to Richie’s chest. 

“Oh, well, if it’s for the sake of your sexy speckled greys … okay, okay,” he holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying that what you’re saying lacks merit. But. I just. Look, if he makes the first move, that’ll be the best thing ever. If he doesn’t, we get to give The Fluffinator a good home and I get to live pre teen Richie’s dream life. There’s no loser here.”

“There are two Losers here, actually, but,” Stan stares at Richie. Richie doesn’t know what he’s looking for, whether he wants to catch Richie out in a lie, as though living with Eddie, moments he wants to set himself on fire included, isn’t living the dream, or trying to telepathically communicate with Richie. Either way, Richie tries to be helpful. He drops 87% of his guard. “Ugh, fine,” Stan says. “I’ll drop it. I just want you to be happy.”

“Awww, Stanley, that’s awful nice of you to say.” Richie grins, over the top. 

Stan huffs, shoves his way into Richie’s arms for his first proper, lasting hug since he arrived. “I want you to be happy because I love you. Put on a Voice, make light of it, whatever. It remains the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Richie hugs him tight, and whispers, “so help me Turtle God,” into his hair. Before Stan can pull away though, he adds, “I love you too.”

“You better.” Stan extricates himself, grabs an apple from the most awkward place in Richie’s fruit pile, thoroughly destroying half of the rainbow, and heads into the living room. 

“Hello, sweet boy, aren’t you the cutest fucking thing, what the hell is up with you face, you strange, strange little kitty?” 

Turns out Stan does do baby talk with cats. 

  
  
  


Later, when they’re all heading out to Bill’s place for dinner, they let Stan and Patty go ahead. 

“I know it’s stupid,” Eddie says, biting his lip. Richie wants to run his thumb over Eddie’s bottom lip, smooth it out where it’s getting torn up by nerves. Because that would be a very stupid thing to do, he settles for wrapping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist and rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin there twice before letting go. 

“What’s stupid, Eds?”

He follows Eddie’s line of sight to where Roger Frankenweenie Tozier-Kaspbrak the Third is curled up on their windowsill, wearing his default slightly startled grouchy face. 

“I don’t want to leave him.” Eddie turns his face into Richie’s shoulder and groans. “It’s so dumb. He’s not even a kitten. We just haven’t left him alone before and besides, who needs our friends? Can’t we just have this dumb cat that makes me feel dumb feelings about staying home?”

Richie wraps his arm around Eddie, pulling him properly into his side. “How often are all of us going to be in the same city?”

“Every day if Stan, Patty and Bev would just move already. They’re the last holdouts,” Eddie grouches. 

“Ben’s only here every other fortnight.  _ Anyway _ ,” he cuts in over Eddie’s grumpy face, because if they’re more than a few minutes behind Stan and Patty he’ll never hear the end of it from Stan. He’ll be on the receiving end of very emotive eyebrows all night. “Roge’ll be here when we get home.”

“I know,” Eddie says, a little petulant. He even sticks out his lip,  _ which is really not helpful right now, thanks very much Eduardo. _ “Just because I know that nothing bad’s going to happen, doesn’t automatically make me feel good about it.” He sighs, burrows closer into Richie, his shoulders what Richie fondly thinks of as ‘battle ready’. “Or any less nervous.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, heartbeat picking up. Being quite daring if he does say so himself, and pressing the lightest possible kiss into Eddie’s hair. 

“I’m not talking about the cat anymore, Rich,” Eddie says, almost directly into Richie’s armpit. 

“Huh?”

“I’m not talking about the cat.”

He pulls back just enough so that Richie can make eye contact, but not quite far enough that he can breathe easily. He has the classic Eddie determined face. The one that precedes many of Richie’s best memories; riding their bikes at top speed down the steepest hill in town and taking their feet off the pedals, Eddie high on the knowledge that his allergies weren’t real holding a newborn kitten out at the Hanlon farm, stroking the soft fur between its eyes, Eddie taking his hand in the sewers and not letting go until the clown was fucking dead, Eddie on a video call, shoulders set, saying, “if you’ll have me. I want everything I missed out for twenty years, and I want it now.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, bringing his hands up from where they were wrapped around Eddie’s shoulders and waist to cup his face. He can see them shaking. “Yeah, I think I’m kind of getting that.”

Eddie smiles. His eyebrows stay furrowed, but the corners of his mouth turn up and Richie’s heart hasn’t beat this fast since he was trying to out run his own death. This is a much better reason to feel like his chest is going to crack open, he’ll take this one any day. 

Eddie stretches up, bumps their noses together. “This is me making the first move, if you were wondering.”

“Shit, Eds.” There’s too much Eddie too close, he doesn’t even have the headspace to be embarrassed that Eddie overheard his conversation with Stan. “I, uh. I—”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, dipshit,” his voice is so warm, Richie feels like he might really catch alight. “I know.”

Eddie kisses him, and there is no room in his brain for anything other than that. Let the others think what they want, let them have dinner without him, all he cares about is this. The slow slide of Eddie’s lips against his. The way he presses closer, like he might actually be able to climb inside Richie. Hands clutching at his sides, Eddie pressing his name into his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his neck. 

“Richie, I,” Eddie pulls back. He’s a little out of breath, and Richie might not be the best timekeeper right now, but he knows they haven’t been kissing long enough that he can’t be a little proud of that achievement. “I.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, and pulls him back in. 


End file.
